Practice Resurrection
by International08
Summary: She has to fix this. She just doesn't know if she can. Follows "Darkness Falls" and "Jaws of Death."
1. Chapter 1

She paces the waiting room, looking up every time someone new enters, but no. They've told her nothing.

Ryan and Esposito sit stone-faced in a pair of uncomfortable-looking plastic chairs. But she can't sit. Needs movement, needs distraction.

She flexes her fingers, realizes she's still clutching the book she'd just pulled off the shelf when Esposito called.

Her mother loved thrillers, loved suspense. And she passed that on to Kate. Her father, on the other hand, passed on his love of poetry, of rhyme and verse. Blake, Neruda, Whitman. And apparently Wendell Berry, though she's never heard of him before today.

That's why she'd plucked the book with the wheat-colored cover from her father's shelves in the first place - she was desperate for something new.

But now, looking at the title, it seems like a cruel joke - _The_ _Country_ _of_ _Marriage_.

Because the only man she's fantasized about seeing in a tux lately is somewhere in this hospital, and she can only hope he's still alive.

She sits finally, after one more pleading look from Ryan. And then she begins to read.

She's halfway through a poem about a mad farmer's rebellion when a throat clears and she startles.

"Detectives?"

Esposito's warm hand lands on her arm and she looks up.

"He's stable," the young doctor tells them. "We'll keep him overnight, but he should be fine."

A sudden sob clogs her throat, and she looks down, tries to blink away the relieved tears that are swimming in her eyes. A single salty drop splashes onto the still open book, and as she swipes her hand across her cheeks, she catches the last two words of the poem she'd been reading.

_Practice_ _resurrection_.

She sucks in a shuddering breath, stares down at the page unblinkingly. The rest of the poem seems mostly irrelevant at the moment, but those words-

They cut her to the quick. These past few days, the loss of him, the seeming permanence of it - it's eaten her alive. But if there's a chance that she can-

Esposito's hand on her shoulder startles her out of her reflections and she looks up, finds soulful brown eyes staring down at her.

"You ready? We're gonna go see how he's doing."

She nods silently, standing and squaring her shoulders. How does she do this?

She's not a miracle worker. And yet. And yet.

After her mother's murder, she pulled herself out of the grave, eventually bringing her father with her.

After the shooting last May, she came back from death, quite literally. Wounded, yes. But not broken.

It wouldn't be the first time she's come back to life. It wouldn't even be the first time she's come back to life because of him.

Wordlessly she follows her teammates down the sterile hallways until they reach a room from which a burly man is emerging. Slaughter.

She doesn't have time to process more than the slight smirk on his face before Ryan and Esposito have him backed against the nearest wall. And yes, he may be taller than either of them, may be known for his toughness. But she still wouldn't want to be in his shoes, wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of the fire their eyes, the anger in their voices.

They consider Castle one of their own, she knows, even if he has deserted them recently, even if he has hurt her.

She slips past the trio, hesitates with her fingers curling around the door handle, finally decides to just get it over with, to just face the music. It can't get worse, right?

She opens the door.

Her heart stops. Pale, he's so pale, his skin a pasty gray. And he's far too still. This is the man who can't sit quietly beside her desk, who only stops moving when he's trying to get her attention. But now... now with his eyes closed - if the heart monitor didn't keep a steady beat, she'd think-

He opens his eyes, and she lurches forward on unsteady legs.

"Kate?" he rasps.

And then she's at his side, her fingers involuntarily skimming his chest, his arm, his neck, his cheek and forehead.

His eyes slide shut, jarring her out of the trance of finding him alive. She pulls her gaze from his face, lets it run over the length and breadth of his body, noticing for the first time his lack of shirt, and with it, the bruising on his torso, the patch of gauze at his shoulder.

Her voice comes out ragged. "Castle..."

His hand snatches at hers suddenly, pulling her fingers from where they rest at his jaw, depositing them none too gently on the thin mattress beside him. "What are you doing here?"

The ice in his tone sends her back a half-step, but when he opens his eyes again, it's pain she finds there. And anger, yes. But not hatred. Not even indifference. Which means there's still a chance.

"I got a call saying my partner had been stabbed and is in the hospital," she says, her voice quiet, but still strong. "What do you think I'm doing here?"

He shakes his head, winces as he does. "You don't need to be here."

She sets a hand on his bare chest. Despite its pallor, the warmth of his skin is reassuring. He's alive.

"I do need to be here," she murmurs.

The muscles of his throat work as he swallows, his mouth a tight line. After what seems an eternity he speaks, his voice low and dangerous. "Fine. If *you* need to be here, then by all means, stay."

She furrows her eyebrows and stares at him. "What is that supposed to mean?"

He sighs. "Nothing."

"That's not nothing, Castle," she returns, curling her fingers at his chest.

He hisses in pain, and she looks down, realizes she's pressing her fingernails against an already bruised area. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean-"

"You never do."

His voice is still quiet, contained, but his words are hard, and she can't quite- she'd hoped-

A scuffle outside the room breaks into her thoughts, and she turns toward the door just as it opens. Ryan leans inside, Esposito grinning over his shoulder. She catches a glimpse of Slaughter behind them, rubbing at his jaw with one hand.

"Hey bro, you okay?" the Latino detective asks. "Gonna live to fight another day?"

She glances back at the writer. He nods brusquely. "I'll be fine."

Following his gaze back to the door, she sees a look pass between Castle and Ryan, something like an apology in the detective's eyes.

Esposito clears his throat then, and Ryan nods at the two of them.

"Let us know if you need anything, dude," the Irish detective says. "We're gonna give Slaughter a ride back to the precinct."

And then they disappear, leaving Kate alone with him again. She stares at the door until she hears movement and a soft groan. Turning back to the man in the bed, she opens her mouth to speak, but he beats her to it.

"You probably need to get going too," he says quietly. "I'm sure you have work to do."

She shakes her head. "No. Actually I don't. We don't have a case, I finished all my paperwork, and for that matter, it's my day off."

He nods, another flash of pain crossing his face at the slight movement. His voice, however, remains passive. "So, then, I'm sure you had plans or laundry or something."

What is he- "Are you trying to get rid of me?"

He stares at her, eyebrows knitted. And then he answers, emotionless. "Yes."

"Why?" she rasps, her heart dropping into her stomach as she looks at him. "Why don't you want me here?"

And then the dam breaks, all the tightly-reined emotions she'd seen in his eyes exploding in a savage growl. "Because I don't want your pity. I don't need it, and I don't want it. That's why. So could you just leave me alone?"

She opens her mouth, something like a sob trying desperately to escape. The detective drags in a stilted breath, her eyes never leaving his face. "Castle-"

"Please."

He closes his eyes as she blinks back tears, chokes down the sudden tightness in her throat. She turns, intending fully to leave, to give in to his request and leave him in peace.

"Take your book," he mutters, startling her. "Wouldn't want you to have to come back for it."

She glances down at her empty hands and then pivots back toward him. She doesn't remember setting it down, but yes, there it is. The faded yellow cover stands out against the white of the sheets next to his arm.

Her eyes catch on the title again as she reaches out, her heart thumping harder in her chest. The words blur for a moment, grief churning in her gut.

And then she remembers the words inside.

Maybe whatever they had is dead. Maybe it's too late.

But maybe it's not.

"No."

"Fine," he sighs. "I'll have someone bring it to you."

"No," she repeats, and his eyes slowly open, flashing blue fire.

"If it's a gift," he says, his voice deadly calm. "Thank you, but I don't really feel like reading."

She shakes her head, resolve strengthening even in the face of his apparent disdain. "It's not a gift. It's my father's. But I'm not taking it because I'm not leaving."

He shuts his eyes again. "Suit yourself."

Enough. She's had enough. "Castle, we need to talk."

Her tone brooks no argument, but his eyes stay shut when he speaks. "I'm really tired, Beckett."

It's a slap in the face, that echo of the last time they were both in a hospital, with reversed roles. She's not the only one who remembers everything.

"Fine," she grits out. "Fine. You rest, then. I'll do the talking."

His expression doesn't change, but a slightly faster beeping from the heart monitor next to the bed tells her she has his attention.

"I don't know what the hell is going on with you," she begins. "We've been working well together for months. We've made it through explosions and wannabe superheroes and a sniper. Hell, we survived a dip in the Hudson and a CIA conspiracy for god's sake and that was barely a blip on the radar. And now all of a sudden you're shutting me out? Who the hell does that?"

She's just getting started, just getting ready to enumerate on all the ways she thought they were doing okay, when his voice breaks through, cold, icier than she's ever heard. "Guess I just figured it was my turn."

"Your-" she splutters. "Your turn. What does that mean?"

She lifts a hand, pushes an errant lock behind her ear.

"Four months," he murmurs. "I've shut you out for what? Two and a half weeks? And at least I've still been around for most of that time. You disappeared for four months."

Her heart drops, anger and guilt warring in her chest.

"I needed time," she whispers reaching out to touch his arm and then thinking better of it. "I told you."

His eyes finally open. "You did tell me."

She furrows her eyebrows. "Then-"

"I remember you telling me," he cuts her off, voice icy. "I remember that day on the swings. I remember that day in the hospital."

She stares at him, her mouth open, shocked at his tone.

But he's not done. "And I remember standing in an observation room and finding out that the woman I considered my partner, my friend - hell, the woman I was in love with - had been lying to me for ten months."

Oh. Oh god. "Castle-"

"Explain to me," he growls. "Explain to me how it is that you could tell a *suspect* that you remembered everything about your shooting but you couldn't tell me. Explain to me how I rank lower than a pickpocket, when I've been the one by your side for three years. Explain to me how you couldn't at least do me the common courtesy of telling me you didn't return my feelings so I could just move on with my life."

She stumbles back, knees buckling just as she reaches the chair she hadn't previously noticed at the side of his bed.

"Rick," she groans, feels the sob rising in her throat.

His jaw clenches. "Explain to me how you could let me put my life on the line for you every single day when you knew how I felt and you obviously didn't care. Explain to me how you could let me risk leaving my daughter fatherless just so I could follow you around like a whipped puppy."

She bends, grief and hurt and anger clawing at her guts, making her head spin. Burying her face in her hands, she can hide the sight of him, wounded and furious. But she can't block out his voice.

"Explain it to me, Kate."


	2. Chapter 2

He's right.

She wants to be defensive, wants to get angry with him, to scream and yell at him. But he's right.

With one exception.

She does love him.

He goes silent after his tirade, but she can hear what it's cost him, can hear the way he's breathing a little harder, how it takes a moment for his heart rate monitor to slow its beeping.

When she finally looks up, his eyes are shut again, brows knit, a crease breaking the smoothness of his forehead. His nearest hand is clenched in the sheet at his side, his knuckles white.

What is she doing to him? What has she done to him?

She has to fix this.

She just doesn't know if she can.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. It's not enough. She knows it's not enough. But it's all she has.

He doesn't move, doesn't open his eyes, doesn't speak, but he lets out a short puff of air. A scoff, it sounds like. As if he doesn't believe her or doesn't care.

The detective vaults to her feet, nearly crashing into the side of the hospital bed. Bending, she carefully slides her hand under his, unfurls his fingers from their hold on the sheets.

"I'm sorry, Castle," she repeats, hearing the break, the squeak in her own voice. "I'm so sorry."

He takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly and then speaks, low, gravelly. "I told you. I don't want your pity."

Cradling his fingers between both hands, she leans over and presses her lips to his knuckles. "Not pity. It's not pity, Castle. I promise."

He hasn't yet yanked his hand from her grasp, though she's not sure if he's giving her a chance or if the movement would just require too much effort from his battered body.

Turning his hand, she presses a final kiss to his palm and gently lowers it back to the bed. She doesn't relinquish it though, keeps it tight between her own.

When his eyes finally open again, it's as if he can't completely close the shutters - light breaks through, a beacon for her hope. "Then what is it, Kate? Tell me, please, because at this point, I really don't understand."

"I love you."

The words come out without thought, unbidden - her heart's last ditch effort. But as his eyes widen, and then narrow again, she holds his gaze, defiant.

"What?" he rasps. "What did you say?"

She drops to a crouch beside the bed until she's just below his eye level, pulls his hand toward her until his palm rests against her chest. Taking a deep breath in, she speaks again, with intent this time. "I love you."

His gaze softens immediately, but there's still something underneath, almost hidden, but not quite. Disbelief, perhaps, and a remnant of hurt as well.

He shakes his head, and she cringes as a flutter of pain crosses his features at the movement. "Then why didn't you tell me, Kate? Why did you lie to me all this time?"

She lifts his hand from its spot over her heart and presses her cheek against his palm instead, begs him with her eyes to listen, to understand. His fingertips feather at the hinge of her jaw, at her earlobe, and she suppresses a shiver. "I was afraid."

"Of what?"

She tilts her face further into his touch, her hand still holding his captive, unwilling to let go, unwilling to let him pull away from her again. "Of a lot of things."

He sighs. "Like what, Kate?"

She lets her eyes drift shut as she speaks. "I was scared of screwing up what we already had, though as Lanie recently pointed out, what we had wasn't much."

His hand jerks against hers, and then he groans at the obvious pain. "Not much? How does three years of partnership - of friendship, I thought - equal not much?"

She opens her eyes and frowns, squeezing his fingers. "You're right. Lanie was wrong on that point. Three years of friendship - that's something. Three years of having you by my side."

His lips part, but he says nothing. His expression though - his expression speaks volumes. She knows without a doubt that those three years have meant as much to him as they have to her.

"What else?" he finally says, breaking the silence between them.

"I was afraid that if I let you in, finally and completely, you wouldn't like what you'd see."

His mouth opens fully then, but she shakes her head, cuts him off before he can make any reply. "Castle, I'm so screwed up. So unbelievably screwed up."

He laughs. "And you think I'm not? Look at me, Kate. I'm a forty-three year old man who lives with his crazy mother and his almost-grown daughter. I've been married twice, divorced twice, and I spend my days looking at dead bodies or trying to figure out how to kill people."

She gives him a soft smile. "Well, when you put it like that..."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "I'm just saying. We all have baggage. And I'm well-acquainted with yours."

She nods. "I know you are. I just-"

"It doesn't matter to me," he says, his fingers pressing against skin as his thumb strokes her cheekbone. "What you've been through, your wounds - those things just make you who you are. What else?"

Pulling her bottom lip under her teeth, she hesitates. This- this is the biggest fear, and though she's rapidly coming to believe there's no reason for it, part of her still-

"I was afraid you only said it because I was dying," she whispers hoarsely. "That you didn't really mean it."

His eyes slide shut, his hand twitching against her. "Kate."

It's the same tone she heard from Dr. Burke, that tone that tells her he thinks she _should_ _know_ _better_, and it stirs up a sudden hurt, frustration that had taken second place until this moment.

"What, Castle?" she hisses. "What was I supposed to think? I'd given you opportunities to tell me how you felt when I wasn't lying on the ground in a pool of my own blood. You ignored every one of them."

She's standing now, doesn't remember getting up, doesn't remember letting go of his hand either. But his fingers lay slack against the stark whiteness of the sheet, and his face is a mask of mixed pain and anger.

He opens his mouth, but she's not done. "And it's not like you haven't had plenty of chances since then to say it again if you really felt that way."

"When, Kate?" he breaks in. "When was I supposed to tell you? Before, when you were with another man? Or after you pushed me away, disappeared for the whole summer and left me to wonder if you were okay, if you were even alive?"

She takes a step back, turns away from the flashing eyes. His voice has been quiet, and she suspects he's trying not to attract the attention of any hospital staff, but his words lack nothing in venom.

"I came back," she growls, still facing away from him. "And I asked you to come back."

He huffs. "Would you have tracked me down if I hadn't had the files you needed?"

She shuts her eyes, blocks out the too-white walls.

"If you thought..." she trails off, then starts again. "If you thought I was just using you for info, why did you come back? You could have just given me the files."

"Oddly enough," he says to her back, his voice still angry. "I didn't want to see you go off on your own and get killed. I care about you, Kate."

She turns back to him finally. "Really, Castle? Because I seem to remember you going on a date with a suspect and sharing confidential information with the stewardess you paraded around in front of me."

His eyes flash, his mouth tightening into a straight line, a muscle pulsing at his jaw. She can hear the frustration in his words when he speaks again. "You told me to go out with Serena Kaye, or did you forget that?"

"I didn't tell you to kiss her," she spits out. "I didn't tell you to be all smitten with her."

He scoffs. "Smitten? I wasn't smitten. No more than you were with Mr. Scotland Yard. Did I find her fascinating? Yes. I figured she'd make a good character in a book."

"And Jacinda?" she returns. "Another good book character?"

He shakes his head, closing his eyes. "A mistake."

Something in his tone, something in the expression on his face twists her guts, and she suddenly feels sick.

"Castle?" she murmurs, and he opens his eyes, stares back at her. Suddenly she doesn't want to-

But she has to know, has to know how badly damaged they are. "Did you sleep with her?"

"Kate..."


	3. Chapter 3

She shakes her head. "No. God, Castle, I'm sorry. It's none of my business if you-"

"Kate."

The detective turns her head away, closes her eyes, taking a deep breath. If he... well, she had no true claim over him did she? It's not like she had made her feelings known, not really. She'd thought, after that day on the swings, that they had an understanding. But looking back? She was purposefully vague, still holding her cards close to her recently mended chest. So if he did-

A large, warm hand covers hers, prying her fingers from their tight hold on the sheet. "Kate, I-"

"I don't know," she murmurs, hears him suck in a breath. "I don't know how to...but-"

His fingers tighten around hers, and she opens her eyes, sees the clench of his jaw, the shimmering blue of his eyes. It steels her resolve.

"I don't know how, but if you still-" she grits out, can't quite finish the thought, terrified that maybe he doesn't, maybe she's too late.

"If I still what?" he asks, his voice gentler than it's been since she arrived.

Her eyes drift shut once more. "Love me. If you still love me, then I think-"

His grasp on her hand tightens almost to the point of pain. "Kate..."

She's never heard her name in quite that tone - hushed, reverent. It pulls her from the grief roiling in her gut, pulls her back to their joined hands, and she opens her eyes. Her stare rests on their fingers for a moment, but when he repeats her name, she meets his gaze.

"I do," he whispers. "And I didn't."

His fingers desert hers, rise to curl around her wrist, but she doesn't respond, can't quite manage. Just stares at him.

"I do love you," he says softly. "So much. And I didn't sleep with her."

She jolts forward, finally, pulls from his grasp to lean over the bed, to set one hand on his chest, the other at his cheek, her eyes intent on his. "You do? And you didn't?"

He chuckles. "This is starting to sound ridiculous, even for us."

"Why?"

"Well, the whole 'do' and 'didn't' thing," he starts to explain, but she shakes her head.

"No," she clarifies. "I mean, why didn't you sleep with her?"

He stares at her for a moment, his eyebrows furrowed.

"She wasn't tall enough," he answers slowly.

The detective straightens, looks for signs that he's joking, but finds nothing.

"Her hair was the wrong color," he continues.

She raises an eyebrow. "You've never had a problem with blondes in the past."

He shrugs, winces, and she presses gently on his chest, a reminder to _stop_ _moving_. "Maybe not, but she smelled funny too."

She can't help a slight smile at the way his nose wrinkles. "And what exactly did she smell like?"

"Airplanes. And airplane food. Rubber chicken."

"Not peanuts?" the detective asks.

Castle shakes his head. "They don't serve peanuts anymore. You should know that."

"So," she muses. "Not tall enough, wrong hair color, and she smelled funny. That's why you didn't sleep with her?"

He nods. "Contributing factors. But Kate?"

She feels the breath leave her as his hand settles over hers on his chest, fingers squeezing.

"Hmm?" she hums.

"Mostly it was that she wasn't you."

Her gaze flits from their hands to his shoulder, to the white bandage that wraps around his flesh. And she has to close her eyes, has to shut out the white walls, the could-have-beens and the regrets, the wasted time that almost became all the time she had.

Not what she needs to focus on. Not when he's alive. Alive and holding her hand. Alive and stroking his thumb over the pulse point in her wrist.

"She wasn't you," he repeats. "I kept closing my eyes, but-"

The image springs to life in her mind, his hands bracketing the other woman's waist, her fingers delving into silky brown hair, his mouth on hers. Her stomach churns.

"I closed my eyes," he says softly. "But it seems my imagination isn't as good as I thought. Also, please don't tell her I said this, but my mother was right."

The detective opens her eyes then, finds him watching her. "Your mother?"

He nods. "Apparently love isn't a switch that you can just flip."

She lets out a choked laugh. "Your mother said that? Dr. Burke said the same thing."

She expects him to find that funny, that her therapist and his self-appointed 'life coach' would say the same thing. But he doesn't laugh, doesn't even smile.

"Kate," he whispers, and there's something in his voice, something broken that she doesn't understand. "You talk to your therapist about me?"

She nods. "Sometimes."

He looks stricken. Why does he-

"Castle, I thought you knew I was talking to someone," she says. "Didn't you?"

"Yeah," he murmurs. "Yeah. I mean, I figured at least. About the shooting, about your mom and Montgomery."

"All of it, yes."

"But me?" he asks, and she sees the light that had come back to his blue eyes beginning to dim. "Kate..."

"You're-" she begins, hating what she has to say, hating that she'll probably hurt him again, knowing that she has to say it nonetheless. "You're tied up in everything, Castle."

His eyes slide shut, and she watches the muscles of his throat work as he swallows.

"No wonder you didn't tell me," he whispers. "God, I've been so stupid. I never wanted-"

She leans forward, doesn't wait for him to open his eyes, doesn't wait for permission, just cuts him off, pressing her lips to his.

His swift intake of breath speaks his surprise, and he tries to turn his head. She doesn't let him. Her free hand comes up, cups his ear, holds him in place.

He groans something that sounds like her name, and she takes it inside her, gives it back with the same breath.

She waits, keeps on kissing him until he finally settles and starts kissing her back. And then she pulls away. Pulls away, but stays close, hovering over him. "You're tied up in everything."

His eyes open, and she tweaks his earlobe. "You're my partner, Castle. You're supposed to be tied up in everything. I don't want you to be anywhere else. You're the light, the good in all of the bad."

He closes his eyes again, but the lines of his face have softened, one corner of his mouth turning up as he speaks. "I think of murder and I think of you."

"Now you've got it," she whispers, smiling, her fingers gentling against him, stroking his ear, his temple, his cheek, running her thumb under his eye, across the dark shadows that speak to his weariness.

She presses her mouth to his once more, and this time his response is immediate. He gives back as good as he gets, his teeth closing gently around her bottom lip, his tongue soothing the flesh with a soft warmth.

She's always known he was good with his mouth - his ability to charm certainly has as much to do with his words and that smile as it does with his looks or his personality - but this, this is new. New and yet so familiar, beyond what she remembers from that night in an alley more than a year ago.

This is them - their partnership - give and take, thrust and parry. Banter. Teasing words and smoky eyes and soft smiles.

She slants her mouth over his, her nose brushing his cheek, and he sighs into her. His grin twists their lips, and she laughs against him.

"What?" he murmurs, the words vibrating into her skin. "Are you laughing at me?"

She drops another kiss on his lips and pulls away enough to meet his eyes. "At both of us."

His fingers curl around her forearm where it rests lightly on his chest, and he raises an eyebrow.

"It's not funny, not really," she says quietly. "I just- I was thinking that if we were as in sync with our talking as we usually are with our theory-building or as we apparently are with our kissing-"

Little crinkles form at the edges of his eyes, and the sight takes her breath away for a moment. Oh, she's missed those.

"Things wouldn't have been nearly so complicated," he finishes for her, and she nods.

"I wouldn't have put you through all of this, and you probably wouldn't be in the hospital," she says.

His fingers tighten on her arm. "And I wouldn't have pushed you away and made you think-"

He cuts himself off, shutting his eyes before he continues. "Kate, I don't ever want you to think I don't love you."

She lifts her hand, brushing the hair back from his forehead. "I know. I know now. And I'm sorry, Castle. So sorry that it took all of this happening to get me to tell you how I feel."

"Me too," he whispers. "I'm sorry. I never wanted to hurt you."

"Wouldn't be the first time for either of us," she says, running her thumb over his eyebrow. "Probably won't be the last either."

A resigned sigh answers her, but then he chuckles too. "Going into this with eyes wide open then?"

She nods, laughs when she realizes he can't see her - his own eyes are still shut. But he does open them then, and they brim with what she'd seen for so long, seen but never fully identified: love.

"I've missed that sound," he says softly. "I've missed making you laugh."

She purses her lips, smiles at him with her eyes. "I've missed laughing at you."

His gaze narrows, but he's still smiling, and she finds she is too. He strokes his thumb across her wrist, and she leans down, touching her forehead to his.

"I was reading this poem, while I was in the waiting room," she says quietly, nodding and bumping their noses when his eyes cut toward the book still resting on the bed at his side. "There was a line. It said: 'Expect the end of the world. Laugh.'"

He makes a little sound in the back of his throat, something that sounds like recognition. "I remember that poem. Berry. I read his stuff in college. The title's something about a crazy farmer? And then it says, 'Be joyful though you have considered all the facts.'"

It shouldn't surprise her that he knows it, but it does, and she lifts away from him, smiling. She nods.

"That's what I want," she says. "Someone who will stand with me, who will help me see the good. You do that."

His hand slips down to cover hers again, pressing her palm against his bare skin, just over his heart.

"I want-" he says, his voice rough. "I want that too, Kate. So much."

"We'll be going against all the odds," she whispers.

He laughs. "Between the two of us, we've survived two explosions, snipers, a knife fight, a trip to the bottom of the river, and numerous gun battles."

"And a tiger," she murmurs.

"And a tiger," he agrees. "I think we can make it."

"Do you really think so?" she asks. "What if our luck runs out?"

He squeezes her hand. "Then we'll make it through that too. What was the last line of that poem?"

The steady thud of his heart, the feel of his chest rising beneath her palm - all of it crashes over her as she answers. "Practice resurrection."

He nods, and tugs on her hand until he can press his lips to her fingers, whispering against her skin. "You've come back to life once. And I'm pretty good at following you."

* * *

_Author's Note: Thank you to the wonderful ColieMacKenzie for all the input, proofreading, and letting me use some of our conversations in this story. You are very much appreciated, my friend._


End file.
